


nimentia

by TinyFuryCloud



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dementia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Sad Ending, Sick Character, Sick Tony Stark, Superhusbands, Superhusbands (Marvel), lazy implied sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:39:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyFuryCloud/pseuds/TinyFuryCloud
Summary: Tony Stark is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease and his husband, Steve, falls apart at the news. But Steve needn't worry because he'll be fine, he's Tony fucking Stark, he'll find a cure, he'll survive this.It isn’t until a few hours later that he realizes that his brain will continue to deteriorate.Tony Stark will live with Alzheimer’s for the rest of his life and he will never be smart again.





	1. nimentia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to @duckmoles. Duck, your penchant for angst and your enthusiasm and kindness as I have suffered through writing this fic is unparalleled. I love you very much <3

# nimentia

 

 ** _nimentia (n):_** the post-distraction effort to recall the reason why you’re feeling particularly anxious or angry or excited, in which you retrace your sequence of thoughts like a kid wandering across the neighborhood gathering the string of a downed kite, which was likely lost in a romantic storm or devoured

****

_my dear_

_how afraid you are_

_of your fragile skull and your bird bones_

_and your past_

_how afraid you are_

_of living in the past once more_

_your mind got the best of you_

_but don’t forget_

_you were once the brightest_

_of us all._

 

# September 2036

 

**AGE: 50 YEARS OLD**

 

Tony Stark is absolutely done with this goddamned code.

He’s sprawled across the bed, distracted by Steve racing through each of the rooms on the first floor, which JARVIS is kindly broadcasting to him. It’s maddening and hilarious all at once, but he’s also been staring at the same jQUERY three times without comprehending the commands he’s strung together.

He leaned back in the pillows and tapped his fingers against the laptop as he listens for what’s coming.

“Tony?”

He smirks, tosses the damn laptop aside, and saunters downstairs. He finds Steve on his knees in the second sitting room where they watched _Die Hard_ last night, digging his hand under the couch cushions.

It’s a nice sight. Tony leans against the iron balustrade, enjoying the sight of his husband’s ass in the air. “Keys?” he asks. “Is this for the Veyron or the Ford?”

“Why would _I_ drive the Veyron?” Steve demands, mouth muffled against the sofa cushions as he gropes the floor. “And it’s not the keys, it’s the knife from my stealth suit. I’m pretty sure you hid it from me and now I can’t—”

“That’s because you dismissed the cook and then proceeded to make the world’s worst quiche.”

“ _You’re_ the world’s worst quiche.”

Tony snorts. “God, that was awful. We really need to start training you better.” When Steve’s mouth opens in what is no doubt going to be a barbed retort, Tony interrupts gleefully with, “JARVIS, where’s Steve’s knife?”

“Under the rug to your left, Captain Rogers.”

Steve glances a look at the nearest sensor and smiles. “Thanks, J.”

“You’re getting old, Rogers,” Tony says. “Turning—”

“—fifty.”

“—ninety-eight years old.”

Steve barks a laugh. “If anything, Mr Stark,” he says, punctuating the name with a wink, “ _you’re_ the old fossil here.”

“Golden fossil,” Tony shoots back, drawing close enough to yank Steve by his combat belt. Their mouths press together, once, twice, a promise of later. “Now go. I need to finish this damn code and get to MIT before noon, and your elderly ass is tiring me out.”

Steve presses his middle finger to his mouth, blows him a kiss – God, how he’s been corrupted – and heads out of the penthouse to train the fresh-faced SHIELD recruits, still laughing.

 

***

 

“Today, I have the honor of introducing you to our first speaker of the year. Dr Tony Stark is one of the most distinguished men of our time, entering university at our very own MIT at the age of fifteen and later graduating summa cum laude. You, however, may know him better as the CEO of Stark Industries, and even better – as Iron Man. We are privileged to have him here today to talk to us about the necessity of failure. Please join me in welcoming the one, the only Tony Stark!” 

The applause is near-thunderous. Tony smirks out at them, raising one hand in a small wave. Some students are cat-calling, others whistling, and still others stare at him with undisguised hero worship. It’s the latter that rolls his stomach. All that responsibility, on one person. It’s near nauseating.

Still, this…God, it’s invigorating. The more brilliant the audience, the more talented, or, his favorite, the more _hostile_ , the more the experience thrills him. He’ll be back here by the end of the school year for Commencement, no doubt, but right now, standing in a hall where he stood thirty-five years ago…it’s…

It’s profound.

Shit, so much has happened since all those years ago, since meeting Rhodey, since he graduated, and Mom and Dad died, and then Obie and Afghanistan and _Iron Man._ The greatest creation he’s ever made.

Finally, the audience quiets down and rustles as they shift in their seats.

Into the silence, he says, “Thank you, thank you. The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ The weeks of fear and nausea I have endured at the thought of giving this speech have made me lose weight. Somewhere, Captain America is delighting in his newfound ability to punch my lights out during practice.”

Cue the appropriate roars of laughter. Camera lights go off and Tony smirks once more. Steve is _definitely_ going to get him back for that, probably by literally punching his lights out during practice.

 _Speak the truth and so it shall come true_ , and all that shit.

“Now,           I’m standing here and I must tell you, looking back at the fifteen-year-old that I was when I first began uni is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the twenty-five-year-old that I’ve become.” There’s more cat-calls and he quirks his mouth into a practiced half-smile. “Twenty-five, seriously! But truth is this: more than half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, my penchant for imagination, and what was expected of me. Running Stark Industries some day versus tinkering with my bots.” Some grin wildly at that – it’s probably Bruce’s fault, really. He’s discovered Instagram and he’s begun using it to spread wisdom and DUM-E’s foolish pursuit of making the perfect milkshake.

“It is only when I broke away from what was expected, realized that my situation was not…”

It’s here that it _happens._

One second, the words are flowing off his tongue, loose and easy, and the next, he can’t…

He can’t find the accompanying word.

He shifts his weight, maintaining his smile ( _always maintain your smile, Anthony_ ), and grasps wildly at his scattering thoughts. Suddenly, he’s thinking of everything but what he needs to be thinking about: that he has to do an update on DUM-E, needs to order the new Louboutins for Pepper, find an anniversary gift for Steve.

But he cannot. Think. Of. The Word. It’s just…gone. He doesn’t know the shape of the word or even one of the letters or the way it _felt._ It’s not even a tip-of-the-tongue phenomenon.

He swallows, shoves the spiraling thoughts away and into a box, and continues, “…seized the day, carpe diemed that shit” – there’s another round of laughter – “oops, sorry, no cursing. Captain America’s not happy about bad language.”

No one seems to have noticed his mental hiccup. No one seems confused or alarmed or embarrassed for him, but maybe that’s because they think it’s all an act, because it’s _him_.

_Okay, Stark. Breathe._

It’s just a fucking word.

He shakes his head and continues, his heart hammering wildly now like it’s never done before, “But point is, only when I decided to take charge of my world – yes, I _am_ talking about the Iron Man suit and no, I won’t be able to provide a live performance rocketing in. Again – blame Rogers.”

Someone yells, “Listen to your husband!” and everyone subsides into helpless laughter again.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. He’s powerful, isn’t he? Terrible influence, really, but a great one. So I look at all of you, future MIT grads whom I will once again be seeing when the year is out, if the world doesn’t need rescuing _again_ , and I ask you to realize this: you do not _need_ superpowers or robotic suits to change the world. You only need retain your imagination and you already have the power to remake the world into its better version. Thank you. I wish you the very best at the beginning of your new lives.”

 

***

 

He’s driving home during rush-hour, Happy stoic and silent in the passenger seat, when the word finally returns to him.

_Inescapable._

 

# October 2039

 

**AGE: 53 YEARS OLD**

 

“God, that was a pain in the ass,” says Tony, still panting as they exit the workout rooms.

“No, _I_ was the pain in your tushie,” says Steve, barely ruffled.

Tony jostles him with his shoulder. “No, sweetheart, that’s _tonight._ ”

Predictably, Steve blushes, and Tony considers himself the winner here, even though not minutes ago, Steve was pummeling his armored head against the wall. It’s probably payback for the MIT speech, though when asked under duress (read: with the repulsors pointed at his chest), Steve denied it.

He’s become a better liar _and_ he’s disabled JARVIS’ voice recognition capabilities to validate a person’s words as true or false, so Tony has to just _believe_ him now. It’s positively infuriating.

“When do you leave for California?” Steve asks.

“Hm, at eight at night, November first. We’re taking the jet because Pepper wants to take the plane. Oh, that reminds me, I need to buy her new shoes. And also your—I mean—”

He flounders for a second.

“My anniversary gift?” Steve asks cheekily, but almost instantly he flushes. “I mean, you don’t have to, it’s not even our _wedding_ —”

“Shut up, twenty-five years since we started dating, we’re doing something. We’re doing something _amazing._ ”

“Matching ties from Savile Row?”

“God no, we can only do that as wedding gifts,” Tony says, laughing. They bought their entire outfits, but most importantly, outrageous-looking ties, for their wedding there, and ever since, they presented the other with increasingly outrageous ties every fifth wedding anniversary. It was the only thing Steve was ever comfortable with spending a lavish amount of money on. “No, no, this gift will be different. It’s going to blow your mind away. I mean, I’ll also blow your—”

Steve raises both brows – he’s always been incapable of independent eyebrow function – and moves so quickly Tony barely has a chance to register the fact that his body is flat against the wall and Steve’s mouth is against his.

“Mhm,” he hums. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but later.”

“Are you too old to do this against a wall anymore?” Steve teases, his thumbs pressing hard into Tony’s hips.

“Shut the fuck up—mmpfff—”

They don’t talk again for a few minutes.

Finally, Tony releases Steve and eyes his reddened lips with amusement. “Pretty.”

“View’s nicer from here,” Steve drawls, and, swiping his forearm over his swoopy hair, he saunters down the hallway toward their bedroom.

Tony has half a mind to follow his husband and lock that door behind the two of them and forget California, but then JARVIS, the damn cockblock, interrupts. “Sir, Dr Banner would like to ask you what reference you used for the new Alzheimer’s treatment outline, paragraph four on beta-amyloid inhibitors. He’d also like to inform you that the IRB* is requesting a meeting with you and Dr. Banner this week to go over your proposal before Phase I commences.”

“Fine,” Tony says, “just coordinate it with my Board meetings. Those assholes will be pissed if I reschedule again. And hmmm, the reference, hold on, let me think. God, what was it?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the last name of the author and the year of the work to bubble to the surface.

It doesn’t. “God, this is what happens when you get old,” he mutters. “Steve, you probably know exactly how it feels.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve says succinctly, and disappears into the bedroom. “I—”

“Bird, Thomas, 1998!” Tony yells.

“Thank you, sir,” JARVIS says. “Also, you and Captain Rogers are being called in for a debrief by Director Fury.”

“That asshole wants something from me all the time. _Fine._ ”

“We’ll come, J,” says Steve, far more conciliatory than Tony has ever been in his entire life. “And Tony, how you do that” – his voice is muffled, probably changing his clothes – “I will never know. Seriously, how do you hold all that information in your head.”

Tony saunters into the bedroom, leans against the door, and winks at his husband. “I’m a genius, sweetheart, it’s what I do.”

 

***

 

Tony’s in SHIELD HQ after the debrief when it first happens.

He’s on the third floor on the training rooms end when he suddenly freezes.

He doesn’t know where he is.

He looks back down the street, where Natasha lingers behind with Clint, the two of them arguing about vents and spiders and _how dare you, you asshole_. Steve’s already outside, probably grabbing Tony’s favorite coffee the way they always do after debriefs if Tony’s managed to keep his mouth shut while they’re treated like children by Fury.

It’s…he knows he’s in SHIELD, third floor, but he doesn’t know which way is _out._

He’s trapped and he can’t—

He closes his eyes, _thinks._ The curve of the stairs, the interrogation floor above them, the administrative floors deep down in the basement. He’s been here hundreds of time but suddenly none of the disparate parts will fit his fucking mental map and he just—

He can’t escape.

He digs his fingernails into his palm. His armpits feel sweaty. He’s never, ever been _sweaty_ under pressure, and yet right now, it feels like panic.

He wills himself to walk another step, and then another, legs feeling like rubber, like they might give way at any moment now. The rooms lack context – he passes by like a ghost, and he closes his eyes at the too-loud thrum of agents sparring in a nearby training room. He listens to his blood pulse behind his closed eyelids.

“Please,” he whispers, and opens his eyes.

Just as suddenly as it left him, it’s back again, his surroundings snapping snugly back into place.

Heart beating a wild tattoo in his ribcage, he turns right, then goes down the stairs, circles around, takes the elevator down the next floor, and swipes his badge to exit. He walks as fast as he can without running and gives several wide-eyed SHIELD interns his patented smirk.

Happy’s waiting outside in the Veyron; Steve apparently had to get home as soon as possible to get their costumes ready for their little stint at a local Children’s hospital for Halloween tomorrow. Tony vaguely remembers how adamant Steve was about handmaking the costumes, as if they don’t quite literally own the suits.

“It has to feel authentic, like we tried just for them, Tony,” Steve had said, and that logic had made no sense, but Tony had argued half-heartedly and let it go. Probably because, at the time, Steve had been doing this complicated thing with his tongue that made Tony see stars.

Tony gets into the driver’s seat of the car, feeling like he’s left his body, and drives. Happy says things that Tony can’t hear. He just keeps his eyes on the road ahead and his fingers drumming on the steering wheel and promises himself that once he’s home, once he walks through the door and sees Steve, everything will be fine.

How can he have forgotten? He specializes in Alzheimer’s treatment now – new passion project and it really gets Bruce going – and he _knows_ that a mental map of SHIELD HQ is long-term memory now, consolidated and encoded in his hippocampus for very long now.

And maybe, it could be argued that the average brain would be susceptible to forgetting, particularly if they haven’t been back in a building in precisely three months.

But Tony Stark doesn’t have an average brain.

“Steve?” Tony asks, once he’s burst into the penthouse. It’s dark outside – a hologram says the time is 1:32 a.m.

Which. Okay. Maybe he’s just _tired._ It has to be that he’s tired, that’s all. It’s 1:30 a.m. and he’s had to listen to Fury drone on and on and on about new protocols and shit and he also just came off a three-day bender in the name of science.

So.

Everything’s fine, he’s _overreacting_ the way the old Jarvis said he did.

He walks into the bedroom to find Steve sprawled across their bed haphazardly, snoring.

Clearly, they’re both just tired.

So Tony pushes the incident out of his mind, crawls onto the bed next to Steve, and yanks him in close. Steve mumbles in his sleep and twists, his warm hand on Tony’s hip bringing him into the curve of his chest. He always manages to find a way to cuddle Tony while they sleep – he always says he sleeps best when Tony’s lying half on-top of him, like their bones are matching together.

With Steve’s breath on his neck, Tony finally falls into a deep sleep.

Everything’s just fine.

 

# December 2042

**AGE: 53 YEARS OLD**

"Sir," says JARVIS at the ass-crack of dawn, "Miss Potts asked me to inform you of your task list for today."

Tony grumbles something rude under his breath, takes his pillow and crushes it over his ears, and rolls in closer to Steve. Their legs tangle together; Steve's fingers find Tony's hip with ease, where there's a bruise from earlier on in the night, and they press against each other lazily.

Louder now, JARVIS says, "You have to review Mr. Parker's research proposal and sign off on the appropriate paperwork so he can have access to SI labs."

"Mkay— Steve, that tickles."

"Shut up, Stark, I'm trying to kiss your neck."

"Do you think if we start going at it again, JARVIS will disappear?"

"Sir, I will not. Michael Clingan needs to speak with you regarding the Chicago trip."

Tony frowns as he runs his mouth down the edge of Steve's jaw and watches him shiver, head thrown back to expose the long column of his pale throat.

Clingan? God knows who that is, but he'll figure it out eventually. Wait—wait, Michael, no, that must be the cook. Probably wants to see what meals Tony wants specially delivered to Chicago – or maybe he’s coming on the trip for some delicious in-flight gourmet.

"You also need to finalize blueprints for Mark XI so we can run production and ground testing by next week's practice round. Sir, I do hope you're listening."

"Steve, yes, yes, there—J, I promise you, I'm listening. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Whatever you say, Sir. Your flight to Chicago is at 8pm, and Happy will accompany you. Now, in the words of Miss Potts, "Stop boning our American hero and get out of bed"."

Tony laughs so hard he would have fallen out of bed if Steve didn’t catch him. 

 

***

 

Once Tony’s approved Peter’s brilliant experimental study plans, which will be conducted in SI labs, called down to Legal and made sure Peter’s paperwork would be expedited, _and_ finalized blueprints for the new suit, JARVIS informs him of a new email.

A hologram pops up inches from his face.

_Mr. Stark,_

_Attached are the security protocols for the flight inbound to Chicago at 9:30 p.m. tonight. You will have three guards in plainsclothes with you at all times as well as me and Happy Hogan in uniform. We will at all times be synced to JARVIS’ network and nine remotely-controlled Mark XIs will be joining us for the flight. You will be lodging at Riva House tonight and your talk at the Alzheimer’s Association International Convention (AAIC) is scheduled for 9 a.m. tomorrow. Please let me or Happy know if there’s anything you’d like to change and please send along your itinerary at your earliest convenience so plans can be finalized._

_Regards,_

_Michael Clingan_

It suddenly hits Tony who that Michael Clingan was that JARVIS had been going on about. This isn’t Michael the cook, this is Michael, Assistant Security Director under Happy.

Tony says, “Yeah, yeah, J, send him my itinerary, CC it to Pepper – isn’t she dealing with security stuff now? And tell him it’s all cool and to please chill. I can handle myself in a suit and security is just to appease Steven.”

It’s a simple mistake, really. Clingan will have the itinerary and have security prepped even with the time crunch.

No harm done.  

 

***

 

God, it’s been a long day. Tony roars into the penthouse garage, barely listening to JARVIS over the glorious roar of the Veyron’s engines. He’s been mostly offline since this afternoon after the meeting with Peter, and managed to even get a whole new blueprint down for Clint’s new bow.

The lights are on only on the first floor, and Steve’s clothes are folded neatly over the sofa in the second sitting room.

“Beloveeeeed,” Tony called, grinning, “the love of your life is home, come kiss me!”

There’s a frigid pause that Tony can practically hear.

The back of his neck prickles.

Moments later, Steve pads out of the bedroom, wearing a towel and nothing else, and Tony would be so, so distracted by all of that if it isn’t for Steve’s face. God, his face, twisted, confused, like something’s gone wrong, horribly wrong, and Tony freezes in the doorway.

Who is it – Nat? Clint, Bruce, God, no, not Bruce, it can’t be Bruce—

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago?”

 

***

 

“Hey, Tony—"

"Bruce—"

"We got IRB approval to proceed with Phase III of Alstark, I mean, of—of course we were going to get it but this quickly? It's a miracle. Are you in the lab tomorrow because we need to see about drawing up a patient population from neurology clinics in the area to start clinical testing—"

"Bruce, I need the neurologist’s number."

“What? Why, we already have appr—”

“No. I need to see him. As a patient.”

  
  
***

 

Tony has been researching Alzheimer's for a very long time now. He's in a competition with Bruce to see which of them has the bigger mental catalogue of research papers on the subject, and usually he wins.

What this means is that he knows exactly what's going on, except it can't affect him, not him, he's Tony Stark, he's a genius billionaire, and if he forgets everyone, forgets he's brilliant, one of the best minds of his generation — probably several generations — then does any of this even _matter_? He knows the statistics, he knows the symptoms, the neurological changes.

God does he know the symptoms.

  
***

 

It’s funny how it’s still surprising when the diagnosis comes.

 

***

 

Tony thinks his blood must be boiling, even before Steve arrives.

They’re at an isolated church so old it has no name. The ruins are hidden away, only the exterior walls clear from satellites that JARVIS pulled up. The roof and floors have long ago collapsed, and what hasn’t rotted away is hidden under rancid saplings and crawling vines.

They make no move to follow the trail to the graveyard behind the church, but Steve is patient like he always is when they visit Howard and Maria.

He never speaks of before, when he knew Dad, and Tony's never known if it's because he can't vocalize his thoughts or if it's because he wants Tony to have the space to grieve.

How can he have Alzheimer's disease?

A million facts flit through his head: Strong genetic linkage, p < 0.05, data is significant.

Was it Mom or Dad, would they have developed it if they'd lived long enough? But he can't imagine Mom, Mom who was quiet and spoke of roses blooming in Tony's chest, couldn't imagine her succumbing that way.

_Congratulations, Dad. How does it feel to know you're the gun who killed your entire family?_

Tony inhales in two jagged steps, and coughs on the damp, cold air. His breath blooms out into the December air.

_Are you happy now?_

There's a keening noise in his head which he suddenly realizes is him, and he flinches right into Steve's open arms. They fold inwards, falling into each other, and Steve buries his cold nose in Tony's scarf.

"Hey," he's saying, "hey, shhh, it's okay, sweetheart, it's okay, let it out."

God, what does he know about Tony’s contaminated brain? What does he know?

Steve holds his fragile skull between his big hands and presses cold lips to each of Tony's wet, closed eyes.

He can see it suddenly, his gravestone in between his parents, a happy family at last. His brain, atrophied and small from years suffering with Alzheimer's, lying underground-- except, that's right, he's donating his body to science.

There'll be no one to visit at his grave, just an empty coffin.

Steve's always said he loves it when Tony lies atop him while they sleep, like their bones align to the same magnetic field.

What will he do when Tony is—is gone? Will he come lie atop Tony’s empty grave and think of him? Or will he be forgotten, the way he’ll one day forget himself?

God, he'd rather die than lose the only thing that's ever made him good – his brain.

He stares up at Steve, his thin lips, the patient arch of his eyebrows as he waits. He's always said he loves how brilliant Tony is. He loves Tony's mind. How can he love him when one day he is nothing but a shell?

_Love you, Shellhead._

"Tony?"

He looks at his parents' marble gravestones.

He'd rather die than tell him.

“Tony? Is everything okay? You’re scaring me, sweet—”

"I have early-onset Alzheimer's disease," he says into the cold, still air.

 

***

 

All Tony can think, on a loop, once the words are out, the explanations given is, oh, God, this is his life now, Alzheimer’s and forgetting Steve, forgetting the team, giving up his suit one day because he won’t be able to work the controls anymore, and he won’t be a genius, won’t be smart, so will he be anything at all?

Will he be just a shell? He can’t be, he’s Tony fucking Stark, and he bows to nothing, not even a disease with no cure and no true treatment.

_Love you, Shellhead._

Neither of them speak, not as they leave the graveyard, dampness clinging to their skin, not even when Tony gets into the driver’s seat and the Ford roars to life under them, so loud, too loud. Tony waits and waits and waits for Steve to say something, except he doesn’t.

Steve cries the whole way home, quiet tears slipping down his stoic face.

_I will love you forever and ever, in sickness — and let’s be real, Shellhead, you’re prone to get sick, I’ve seen you with the flu—_

_Oh, shut up, Steven._

_Right. Right. I will hold you in my heart, in sickness and in health, till death do us part._

And suddenly Tony viciously hates himself for being the only person in the world to see Captain America cry.

 

# July 2045

 

**AGE: 56 YEARS OLD**

 

It’s Steve’s birthday, according to the twelve different alerts Tony has set plus the media coverage. Tony…has planned absolutely nothing for that – or their upcoming anniversary.

“Sir,” says the voice in the wall, “Dr. Banner requests you draw an analog clock pointed at 3:45 p.m., if you would.”

“Why?” Tony mutters. “I don’t _have_ to.”

“He says please.”

Muttering under his breath, Tony turns and comes face to face with a hologram sketchpad like the kind he sees Steve using every once in a while. “I don’t need a pen, do I?”

“No, sir.”

“Finger painting,” Tony muses, and sets to drawing, even though he’s tired.

On his workbench, pages from Legal scatter across, asking once more if he would like to donate his brain for research. He’s already done this all before; he has the heart on his license that gives permission to use his body as seen fit.

Tony draws a big circle and fills in the numbers starting at the top with twelve.

 

“Why did the person need this from me again?” Tony wonders, staring at the clock. There’s something wrong with it, he’s pretty sure.

“Alzheimer’s affects the parietal lobes pretty early on, sir,” says the British man, “and that’s where we keep our internal representations of extrapersonal space. It’s a good method to track your progress.”

Tony thinks it’s more of a regress, but he doesn’t say anything. He waves his hand and the clock disappears. 

“Tony, are you here?” Steve calls from the ground floor.

“I’m in the workshop!” Tony says, trusting that JARVIS will transmit his message.

Moments later, Steve’s bursting through the doors. He greets DUM-E with an absent-minded pat and hands Tony his pills.

They are, quite literally, Tony’s pills – well, Tony’s and Bruce’s, currently named Alstark  – the experimental drug they’d been testing in the hopes of a cure, or at least, a long-lasting treatment.

It’s funny how Tony must have known, subconsciously all those years ago, that he’d need to start research in the field. A pre-emptive measure to save himself, though he’ll be fine, he knows he will be. He’s a _genius_ , for God’s sake, he can beat Alzheimer’s.

He swallows the pills dry and Steve holds out two white plastic bags. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie, which can only mean—

“You snuck out without the security team, didn’t you?” Tony says, accusing yet delighted all at once. “What’d you do _now_ , Steven?”

Steve grins, all wicked sin and American patriotism. “Your anniversary gift.”

Well, that piques Tony’s interest. He makes grabby motions for the bags. “What is it? Is it a dog collar? Is it _handcuffs_? Why, Captain—”

“Jesus, Tony,” Steve says, laughing. The tips of his ears are gloriously pink. “I bought you the next best thing.”

Tony looks into the bag. It’s filled with DVDs – _Star Wars_ , _Godfather_ , tens of his favorites.

“I…don’t we own all of these?” Tony wonders. “What—”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to just _ask_ J, I wanted the drama,” says Steve, and winks at him. “Let’s go watch them? I thought it’d be a little fun thing we could do to celebrate all on our own before the party with the rest of the team.”

“What’s in the other bag?” Tony asks, and his heart hammers wildly in his chest because this man, this man _knows_ what he loves and it’s—it’s just. It’s everything.

Steve pulls out a chocolate bar and three packages of microwavable popcorn.

“Oh, my God,” Tony says, and grabs them from him. “Captain America is indulging my junk food cravings.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Steve warns, but he’s smiling so wide that it can’t be anything but affection in his familiar, warm voice.

Tony breathes once, twice, and then yanks Steve into a hug. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” Steve whispers, and they stand there in the workshop like that, holding on to each other for a very long time.

 

***

 

Minutes later, a British voice from inside the _walls_ says, “Sir, you have an incoming call from Director Fury.”

Tony flinches at the sudden noise and releases his grip on Steve. He glances around the workshop, from the benches to the corners to where DUM-E snoozes in the corner in his port. There’s no one else in the room. “Jarvis, God, you scared me. Where are you?”

At his side, Steve stills. “Tony?”

“Sir,” says Jarvis from all around him, “look at the nearest sensor?”

It’s the first time JARVIS has ever seemed so unsure, but Tony doesn’t know that.

Instead, he frowns, and he says, he says, “Why would you be in a _sensor_? Come on, J, don’t tease, you know how Dad hates it when you mock his tech.”

There’s silence.

“Tony, that’s JARVIS, your AI,” Steve says, voice trembling, “Not your butler.”

 

***

 

The next day, Director Fury of SHIELD sits Tony and Steve down and presents them with evaluations from SHIELD intelligence.

Steve bristles at Tony’s side. “That’s ridiculous, why are they gathering intel on _us_? Is there a file on me as well? What about Nat or Clint – they’re ours but they’re yours too.”

Fury raises one hand. “I’d ask that you stand down, Captain, and simply read the evals we’ve gathered.”

The stack of pages have a summary page on top.

_On a scale from one, disagree strongly, to five, agree strongly:_

  1. _The person of interest becomes disoriented in unfamiliar places._
  2. _The person of interest gets lost in familiar surroundings (own neighborhood)?_
  3. _The person of interest confuses names of family members or friends._
  4. _The person of interest shows visuospatial reasoning difficulties._
  5. _The person of interest holds others to a high standard of performance._
  6. _The person of interest is able to keep up in battlefield conditions and during practice._



All of the answers are threes or below. But the comments that go along with the questionnaire is what seals his coffin shut.

“When in the workshop with his mentee, Peter Parker (person of interest: Spiderman), he doesn’t seem to know all the information he’s teaching and relies on JARVIS, his AI, to fill in the blanks.”

“Board members have a tough time following his reasoning during Stark Industries meetings. Even he gets lost in his own point. He was far more brilliant during his StarkExpo from last year, which I attended and loved.”

“Once, I noted he came in for a debrief with his husband (person of interest: Captain America) and sat down for a few minutes, then left. His demeanor has much changed – he’s no longer the sassy genius who doesn’t give a f***. He’s simply…not himself anymore.”

_OVERALL EVALUATION: Tony Stark is no longer fit to serve on the Avengers in his current capacity._

Tony stares at the letters for a long time until they blur.

Steve takes him home after Fury says words that he can’t hear because they’re wrong, they’re all wrong. He’s a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

But right now, he’s no longer an Avenger.

 

***

 

Tony stands in their bedroom, naked but for a pair of ankle socks and his nanowatch, which contains JARVIS and which, at the slightest sight of danger, will activate the Mark XII suit and remotely remove him to a safe location.

He’s holding his briefs in one hand and he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do with them. He puts them on his head and laughs at himself in the mirror.

Steve’s been watching him for a few minutes now, but then he leaves, clearly unable to watch Tony simply standing there, naked with his underwear on his head, laughing at his own absurd madness.

 

***

 

It isn’t until a few hours later that Tony realizes that his brain will continue to deteriorate.

He’s no genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

He’s simply a billionaire and a philanthropist.

Tony Stark will live with Alzheimer’s for the rest of his life and he will never be smart again.

 

# May 2048

 

**AGE: 59 YEARS OLD**

 

Tony sits at the kitchen table, blowing on his scalding hot coffee, and listens to Steve stomping through the bedroom above him.

“What are you looking for?” he yells.

“Nothing,” Steve yells back.

Probably his keys to the Ford, maybe even the keys to the Veyron, if he wants Tony to not bitch the whole car ride about how _slow_ everything is.

He’s stopped asking Tony for where his things are since the diagnosis all those years ago. He’s stopped asking British man in the walls too, though this seems contrary, as Tony’s certain the British man knows _everything_ that happens.

“Sir,” the British man begins, and Tony at the same time says, “You’re very smart. Do you live in the walls?”

There’s a pause. Then: “Thank you, sir. I do not precisely live in the walls, I live in code. And I do indeed try to monitor everything happening on Stark premises. You even have me in your watch.”

“Well, whoever designed you,” Tony says, sipping his coffee. Hot, just the way he likes it, “is a genius.”

More silence. Then: “Yes, sir.”

After more interminable silence, the voice in the wall says, “Sir, Dr. Banner requests you draw an analog clock pointed at 3:45 p.m., if you would.”

A hologram pops up right in front of Tony obeys the simple command without questioning it.

The hologram vanishes and Steve enters the kitchen with quick, impatient steps.

“Can I help?” Tony wonders.

“No, I’m good.”

It’s newfound stubborn independence like Steve’s trying to spare Tony the mental burden of tracking misplaced things. It’s like he’s _practicing_ for his future without Tony, or perhaps he’s simply embarrassed he has to ask an _Alzheimer’s patient_. The problem, though, is that Steve isn’t like that.

He’s just bloody stubborn about everything in life.

Tony gulps back the rest of his coffee, grimacing, and listens to Steve lie flat on his stomach and search under the sofa. It’s a nice sight.

“Get dressed,” Steve calls, and heads back round the corner.

Tony hears the second bedroom door open, shut; the drawers in the bathroom follow quick suit.

Then he reappears, Tony’s rose-tinted glasses perched atop his ruffled blonde head and keys swinging between his fingers. “Tony, please put your robe, hood, and cap on? We need to leave.”

Tony frowns at that. “Where are we going?”

Steve sighs, though Tony doesn’t know it’s because he’s already asked this twelve times. “MIT Commencement.”

Tony inspects the costume again. “What does _commencement_ mean?”

Steve’s eyes are blue, like—like—well, Tony can’t think of the word but it makes him think of sitting in a bathtub, a really deep one. “It’s graduation day. It marks beginnings. You once gave a sp—” He cuts off abruptly, mouth pressing together into a thin line. His face nearly leeches of color. “Well. Beginnings, that’s what it means.”

Huh. Commencement. He turns the odd term over in his head, feeling the shape of the letters. The beginning of life after…MIT, whatever that is. _Commencement._ He wants to remember it.

“Here’s your pills,” Steve says, dropping two round white pills into Tony’s cupped palms. He washes them down with water, glancing at the bottle they came from. _StarkMedical_ is emblazoned across the lid – _Alztark beta phase III trial, compliments of Tony Stark and Bruce Banner_ is written on the side.

Tony wonders who Stark is and who Bruce Banner is, and forgets the thought nearly immediately as Steve walks back into the room and beams at him. The smile looks off, though Tony can’t say why.

“Let’s go,” Tony settles to say, and startles when Steve pecks him on the mouth as he passes.

They’re driven to the university by a stoic, suited man who nods at Tony, then glances at Steve with something that might be anguish. Tony’s not sure why he’s sad, really. It’s a beginning.

“We’re good, Happy, bring us back in a few?” Steve asks.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Tony blinks. There’s a memory there, associated with the word _boss_ , but he thinks too hard on it, and the memory vanishes.

They walk along a busy sidewalk and Tony thinks that his costume is garish and he really should be wearing a suit and maybe Steve is just _awful_ at fashion choices. Why did he let Steve pick out his clothes again?

They enter a grassy yard shaded by big, old trees surrounded by big, old buildings. All around them an orchestra chimes higher and higher. Tony feels the back of his neck prickle. He thinks he may have done this before, a long, long time ago.

They’re finally led to endless rows of chairs and he and Steve settle in right at the front.

“This is MIT graduation,” says Tony.

“Yes,” Steve says, squeezing his hand.

“Commencement.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

After some time, the speakers begin, and Tony blurts, “I’ve done this before.”

“Yes, you have,” says Steve, and lets out something like a snort-laugh. “Quite a bit, actually.”

His smile fades nearly instantly.

Tony can’t look at him straight-on for more than a few seconds, so he stares at his hands instead. They’re weathered and callused, unlike most rich men’s hands, and there might still be grease under his nails. He thinks suddenly, desperately, that at least it’s not Parkinson’s – at least he can still use his hands, make things.

But what good is that if he forgets _how_ to make things?

The person on the stage calls himself Dr Bruce Banner and he talks about radiation and something called the Hulk and Avengers and Iron Man. Then he smiles, and he says, “Now in the words of one of the greatest men of our time, go forth. ‘I wish you the very best at the beginning of your new lives.”

“That’s a nice ending statement,” says Tony, and thinks hard. “Sounds familiar.”

“Hm.”

“Do you know who said it, Steve?”

Their eyes meet, hard and blazing blue to contemplative brown. Steve looks away first this time. “No,” he says finally, “no, I don’t.”

They fall into tense silence until suddenly orchestral music starts up around them again. Tony sways to the music, thinking he much prefers rock, but this will have to do. “What’s going to happen now?”

“Peter Parker, he’s the boy you mentored since he was fifteen, he’s graduating today. Getting his Ph.D in Astrophysics.”

Tony frowns. “What did I mentor him on?”

A pause. “Then…a variety of things. You gave him your workshop last week as a graduation gift.”

“Oh. That’s nice of me.”

The words startle a laugh out of Steve and he glances down at Tony. “Yes,” he says, the corners of his eyes wrinkling at some joke that Tony can’t hear. “Let’s try to find him, okay?”

Tony looks all around the room at the faces of the people in the awful costumes but he can’t for the life of him figure out who’s Peter. But though he doesn’t know anyone here, much less Peter, he suddenly recognizes himself in them. This is something he knows, this place, the brimming excitement, this beginning.

This, he’s certain, had been the beginning of his grand adventure, too, and though he can’t remember the details, he’s fairly aware that it was a rich life and rich memories and the best of friendships in between.

“There he is, on the stage,” says Steve, and waves enthusiastically.

Someone behind them yells, “Oh, my God, that’s Captain America waving at Spider-Man. Yoooo, that’s a legend recognizing another legend.”

“Forget Peter Parker, look at him.”

“Shit, that’s Tony Stark, holy shit, holy shit—”

“Who?” Tony wonders.

“It’s Peter,” says Steve, “your mentee. His Aunt May’s probably somewhere here too, we should find her after, she’d love that.”

“Does she know me?” Tony asks, craning his neck to figure out which boy Steve is referring to. “Where…”

“Yes, she knows you,” Steve says, amused again, and then, instantly anguished. His face shutters before it smooths out as if nothing at all has happened, and his hand is back at Tony’s right elbow, holding him in a gentle but firm grip as if to reassure himself that Tony is still here at his side. “And it’s the brown-haired boy. The one with the red and blue mask embellishment on his hat.”

“Oh, is that a mask?” Tony wonders. “It looks ugly.”

Steve huffs another happy-sad laugh. “Hm, well, the creator would take offense to that, you know.”

“Fuck the creator, though,” Tony says, feeling irreverent all of a second as he stands among brilliant students off to forge the rest of their lives.

Steve stills at his side.

Tony frowns. “Language?”

Steve goes somehow even more impossibly still. Then, in a cracked, desperate voice, he says, “Something like that. Come on, let’s clap for Peter, he’s gonna have to g-get off the stage now.”

Tony’s pretty sure something’s wrong with Steve, but he’s distracted by the screams and cat-calls that Peter Parker receives as he’s handed his certificate. The boy holds it high over his head and searches the room, clearly trying to find his parents.

“Aunt May’s probably in the third row,” Steve muses, though that makes no sense. Wouldn’t she be where Peter’s parents are?

But Steve provides no details and Tony’s too busy staring at Peter, who’s suddenly locked eyes with him, and smiles so wide, so brightly, that Tony is startled into applauding him again, this mentee of his whom he has no memory of.

 

***

 

They’re waiting for some person called a valet to bring them the keys to a car named a Bugatti Veyron.

“Your favorite,” Steve promises, when Tony wrinkles his nose at the name. “I’m more of a Ford guy, really.”

Then someone in a costume yells and runs over to them, babbling something about Iron Man and Captain America, what an honor, what an honor, and Tony’s not listening, really.

Steve releases Tony’s hand to salute the girl and says, “Thank you for your service, ma’am,” and the girl turns crimson red and says breathily, “It’s an honor to meet you, Captain.”

Tony’s not sure what they’re talking about and he’s still caught in his thoughts that he keeps walking.

“Sir,” says the British voice from the wall, except how can that be, when the British man is always at home? He glances down at his watch, where there’s something projecting _out_ of it.

He frowns. “Uh. Yes?”

“Sir, it’s advised that you stop walking, I’ve alerted Captain Rogers but there’s an incoming—”

For a stretched0out second, Tony turns and makes eye contact with a short, mousy-haired woman in an oversized man’s coat. He’s not sure if he knows the woman – he thinks _maybe_ – but mostly he’s staring at the phone at her ear, the glasses over her big, brown eyes, and the kid from before, sitting in the passenger seat.

Oh, right, they’re also driving the car.

Then, Tony’s hood is pulled suddenly tight around his throat, and he’s jerked backward by someone with superhuman strength. He slams into a blonde-haired man’s open arms and stares, startled, into these bright blue eyes, deep as the ocean.

“Tony, oh, God, Tony, are you okay?” the man demands, running his hands up and down Tony’s arms once, twice, thrice. Then, when no answer is forthcoming, he buries his face in Tony’s neck.

Tony tentatively pats the man’s soft blonde hair and wonders what’s going on. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, you walked right into the street. That car almost hit you.”

“Oh, my _God,_ Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, are you okay? Aunt _May!_ ”

“Peter, be quiet, oh, my God, is he okay, Captain?” It’s the men’s coat-wearing woman from the car, and she’s clutching the younger boy, Peter, by the sleeve of his costume.

“Steve,” says the man with the tone of someone who’s had to correct Aunt May many times. “He should be fine, just startled, I think. Ma’am, please, it’s fine. He’s okay. Right, Tony?”

Tony’s not sure what he’s doing in this man’s arms but they’re so warm and he thinks, _God, I could just lie on your chest forever_ , though he’s not sure where the thought came from.

“Let me give you a ride,” Aunt May cries, and Peter nods along enthusiastically.

“Yes, Mr Stark, Cap, it’d be—please, let’s go, together! We can celebrate!”

The man next to Tony debates, jaw tight, but then he glances at Tony. Whatever he sees, it seems to convince him.

“Thank you,” says the man.

Then he puts his arm around Tony’s waist and his hand under Tony’s elbow, and Tony gets into the car with the woman and her child – and the kind blue-eyed stranger who saved his life.

 

# July 2051

 

**AGE: 62 YEARS OLD**

 

Tony sits in a big, comfortable sofa and puzzles over the clock displayed on the wall in blue letters. There’s a British man in the walls who announces the time whenever he asks, which is…strange because he’s pretty sure no man should live in the walls.

Today, however, he’s requested the other kind of clock. It’s the kind with hands and numbers, which is harder to read than the kind with _just_ numbers, especially when the British man reads it aloud no matter where Tony is.

“What time is it?” he finally asks.

“Almost three, sir,” says the British man in the walls, and Tony glares all around in him in suspicion. “Speaking of, Dr. Banner requests you draw an analog clock pointed at 3:45 p.m., if you would.”

A hologram appears and Tony stares at the blue flickering screen in doubt before shrugging and doing as he’s told.

The blonde man is watching him as he draws and once Tony’s done with his masterpiece, he says, “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Tony says with conviction, and the hologram disappears. “What time is it?”

The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man sprawled across from him swallows, flicks his eyes to the ceiling, then says, “D’you need something, Tony?”

“I need to go home,” says Tony.

“You _are_ home. Well, one of our homes. We’re in Australia right now, in the mansion. Bruce’s giving that panel on Alstark – those pills you take.”

Tony frowns at the man. He’s very young – sharp cheeks, hard…what’s the word… _jaw._ Hard jaw. Even twisted as he is on the opposite sofa, he holds himself like he’s—like those people with the guns, the—

The military.

Odd.

He’s pretty sure he knows a thing or two about the military, we—weapons or something.

He wonders if the man across from him is lying to him. But then how can the British man be in the walls? He’s in the walls at _home_ , so…

He shakes his head. “I think I’ve been here long enough. I want to go home.”

“Sir,” begins the British voice, “I can catch him up-to-speed—”

“No, that’s fine, JARVIS,” says the sharp-jawed man. He tosses his book aside and crouches next to Tony. Then he reaches out slowly, as if not to startle Tony, and rubs his thumb in slow circles across Tony’s own jaw. “Hey.”

“Hey?”

“We’re at home, I promise, sweetheart,” says the man, and the promise sure does sound like a _promise_ , like a real, real one.

Tony lets the man keep his fingers against his face for a very long time, but he’s still sure the man doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Maybe he’s drunk. Really, really drunk, the kind you get when you drink too much and everything goes dead black. He’s not sure why he remembers that now, but his stomach curls.

So the two of them sit there in silence, hand-to-cheek, eyes-to-eyes, and Tony wishes all the while that someone would take him home.

 

***

 

Tony sits on the floor in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom he sleeps in and examines his reflection. The man in the mirror has sunken, darkened circles under his eyes, his skin loose and spotty and wrinkled at the corners of his eyes and along his forehead. His hair is _gray._

He’s pretty sure he never looked this ugly or old before.

He wonders why the blonde-haired man who owns this penthouse puts up with him as he runs his fingers over his cheeks and forehead, feeling his face on his fingers and his fingers on his face. That’s not him. It can’t be.

“Sir,” begins the British voice in the walls, and he has no idea why the voice has to follow him into the bathroom. This is the umpteenth time the voice has said _Sir_ today, he’s sure. “It’s time for you to go downstairs for your anniversary party.”

“Anniv…what are you harping about now?” Tony demands, and the voice goes suddenly, disturbingly quiet, and he’s not sure what he’s said, but the new silence prickles at him. “Hello? Are you okay?”

“I—it’s nothing, Sir,” says the voice, softer now. “Your speech pattern simply…reminded me of someone.”

Tony can’t possibly think who. He’s the only one who lives in this place.

 

***

 

They don't go out to dinner with the others for this anniversary that is also doubling as Steve's birthday party.

Instead, the cook and Steve bake a massive cake, which Steve says is just the way his mom made it. Tony wonders at that for a second — did his mom ever do that? Does he have a mom? Where is she? — but then the short red-haired woman in a stealth suit and the taller red-haired woman in a suit and sharp heels come out with the towering cake and he forgets about his family.

There's words on the cake, which he assumes say _Happy Anniversary, Tony and Steve_ , or _Happy Birthday,_ Steve, but he can’t tell you for sure. What he does know is that the corners are decorated with masks, one red and gold, the other the colors of the flag.

No one asks or tells him how many years he's been married to Steve. No one teases him about forgetting his anniversary gift, even when Steve presents him with matching ties from Savile Row, and tells him, voice breaking, that they went there to buy their wedding suits thirty-five years ago.

The entire team is surrounding them as Tony ans Steve, hand in hand, stand before the gleaming cake, lit with too many candles to count.

He forgets that he needs to blow them all out, and Steve squeezes his hand once and says, "Tony, now."

Once upon a time, Tony would have wanted to die at the simple delight he feels when the candles wink out. Once, it was all beneath him -- birthdays were no more important than any other day and he would often be found in his workshop tinkering on DUM-E or harassing JARVIS to play rock music. Now, this is what makes him happy.

Steve smirks at him, but it's a shadow of a smirk, and holds out a spoonful of cake. Once, this would have inspired twelve different innuendos in under twelve seconds. Now, he simply eats the cake and wonders at how delicious it tastes. He doesn't eat as much as he used to — everything tastes like ash now — but _this_. This is amazing.

"...love you," says Steve, and Tony blinks at him. "You have...I'm so proud of you, always have been. Here is to another—" His eyes well up, blue oceans slipping over his bottom eyelashes, and the man named Clint claps his hand on Steve's shoulders. "Here is to another thirty-five."

Tony needs to say something, anything, even if his words don't properly form in his mouth anymore. He has to, it seems necessary.

He opens his mouth and says, with sudden clarity, "Happy Anniversary, Steve."

Steve's mouth opens, closes. Wordlessly, he takes Tony's hand. Their wedding rings clink together. And he says quietly, for Tony's ears alone: "You’re going to be okay."

"Of course I am, Steven, don’t be stupid," says Tony without thinking. “I’m _me_. I’m _perfect_ , a specimen, a geni—”

Steve cuts him off with a hard, desperate kiss, and when he pulls away…God…

Steve's smile, his smile is so bright, so blinding, that Tony would have given away his fortune, his life, for ever again being on its receiving end.

 

# September 2054

**AGE: 65 YEARS OLD**

 

Steve sits at the end of the dining table in the penthouse and gulps down his second round of black coffee, scalding hot the way Tony once liked it. The nurses are watching Tony right now, so he has a free minute.

By his left hand is Tony’s latest clock drawing.

He can’t bear to look at it head on, so he glances once at it, and then away, taking careful cautious sips or he’ll do something drastic like shred the envelope he’s clutching in his right hand.

The envelope has the words _StarkMedical_ printed on top. Bruce had left it outside his and Tony’s bedroom this morning. On the top is a sticky note – _Always here to talk, Steve. Always. -Bruce_

He thinks that there’s nothing to be afraid of – how could anything get possibly worse than Tony now, Tony, who’s no longer a genius?

Then he opens the envelope.

** ALSTARK FAILS TRIAL **

_According to the results of StarkMedical’s Phase III study of Alstark, implemented by Drs Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, patients with mild-to-moderate Alzheimer’s disease who took Alstark during the thirty-five-month trial failed to show a significant stabilization of dementia symptoms compared with placebo._

_Alstark is an investigational small molecule inhibitor of the beta-site amyloid precursor protein cleaving enzyme 1 (BACE1) aimed at completely halting progression of the disease, as opposed to current Alzheimer’s medications on the market, which can at best only delay the disease’s ultimate course._

_The drug was well tolerated and sailed through Phases I and II with much clinical promise and expectation from Wall Street. However, after two years of medication and treatment at the highest dosages of Alstark, patients failed to show improvement or stabilization in cognitive functions, as measured by the Alzheimer’s Disease Assessment Scale and scores on Activities of Daily Living._

_Patients, unfortunately, continued to decline at the expected, significant rate as those not on this experimental drug._

_We at StarkMedical are beyond devastated with this outcome, especially given the lack of treatment options for patients suffering from Alzheimer’s disease._

_We remain grateful to the patients and caregivers who invested time and hope into this study, and ask that you keep Dr Tony Stark, Former CEO of Stark Industries, former Avengers engineer, and most notably known as Iron Man, as well as his husband, Captain Steve Rogers, Captain America, in your thoughts._

_Unfortunately, with virtually no chance of finding a positive clinical effect, the trial will be stopped for futility._

Steve tosses the envelope aside and stumbles to the kitchen to wash the tears away.

 

# December 2057

 

**AGE: 68 YEARS OLD**

 

Tony sits on a bench with the blonde-haired man and watches the child running around in the workshop, talking to someone named Banned. Or Banner. Something.

But the child isn’t really a child – not the kind of small one who lives at home with their parents, but not old like Tony. What’s the name? Medium child.

“Okay, Tony,” says the blonde-haired man, “it’s time to go to the graveyard. You want to say bye to Bruce and Peter before we leave?”

The middle child, Peter, spins immediately, mouth stretching into a warm smile. “Sir, it’s been an _honor_ working in your workshop. Everything’s just so—the robots—and JARVIS—” He stops, still grinning, and finally says on a rough exhale, “Thank you, Mr Stark.”

Tony finds himself smiling back. “Anytime, kid. This is your place, right? Steve told me, I think…”

Steve’s hand curls into Tony’s elbow. “Mhm, you gave Peter full access to your workshop last year. I’m pretty sure he cried.”

“Cap, that’s just—that’s—” the middle child sputters. “That’s _rude._ ”

“We really have to work on your comebacks,” says Steve. “I’ll see you two later.”

The older man, who’s wearing a white…coat…a lab coat? He smiles, and there’s wrinkles in his forehead. He offers a small wave to Tony. “Our Science Bros meeting is tomorrow, don’t forget.” Beside Tony, Steve flinches, an abortive movement that speaks volumes. The older man doesn’t notice. “We’re doing an art experiment.”

“Ex..periment?”

“Yes, you love those,” says the man decisively, and Steve nods too.

“Okay,” Tony says, and lets Steve lead him out of his workshop. “Where are we going?”

“The graveyard, Tony.”

“Why?”

“To visit family.”

“What’s a graveyard?”

“A place where dead people…live.”

“Oh. Will I go there one day?”

“…”

“Steve?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve mutters, the word nearly ripping out of him against his will. His face is pinched.

“What happens there?”

“You tell me. It’s where the dead go to live.”

Tony thinks about this for so long that he forgets what he’s thinking about and needs to ask Steve again.

Then, finally, he looks into Steve’s eyes, which are so…he can’t think of the word…

There it is – so _blue._ They’re so blue and Tony looks into them and he says:

“It’s a new beginning.”

 

***

 

 ** _avenoir_** _**(n):**_ the desire that memory could flow backward; we take it for granted that life moves forward. But you move as a rower moves, facing backwards: you can see where you’ve been, but not where you’re going. And your boat is steered by a younger version of you. It’s hard not to wonder what life would be like facing the other way…

 

***

 

# Epilogue

 

When someone says they’re donating their brain for science, they’re not entirely sure what it entails.

It’s this: it’s Tony Stark’s brain, bloodless, formalin-perfused and Silly Putty-colored, sitting in the cupped hands of a medical student. The professor will point to the sulci and gyri that held all his memories, the way Steve laughs, the way Natasha looked on their wedding day, the way Pepper rolls her eyes at him, Clint proving a point by shooting an apple that Tony was balancing on his head, Bruce sitting with him on the bad days in the workshop as the two of them changed the world, little by little, Jarvis – the old Jarvis – hugging little Tony when Dad didn’t show up after promising, _promising_ they’d work on the Ford ’58 together.

The professor will walk amongst the students who marvel at Tony Stark’s brain, though they won’t be given leave to know it’s _his_ brain, and they’ll say, “At first, Alzheimer’s disease destroys neurons and memory connections, particularly in the hippocampus and entorhinal cortex. Later, it’ll affect the language, reasoning, and social behavior aspects of the cerebral cortex, and over time, many other areas of the brain are damaged. Note the enlarged ventricles.”

All the empty spaces where Tony’s intellect once stood.

“If you look to the StarkHolo slides to your right, you can see the gradual damage done to an Alzheimer’s patient's parietal lobes, which affects their representation of space.

   

“Over time, a person with Alzheimer’s gradually loses his or her ability to live and function independently.

“Ultimately, the disease is fatal.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the next chapter for Author Notes :) I had a lot to say.
> 
> AND PLEASE SUBSCRIBE AND COMMENT. I BASK IN YOUR VALIDATION, KTHXBYE.


	2. Author Notes

The speech Tony gives in Ch 1 references one line from J. K. Rowling’s phenomenal Harvard Commencement speech, and I think all of you should watch it if you haven’t had the chance to before. It’s profound and moving and I think, necessary, for people of all ages and all walks of life. <3

 

Bruce is a medical professional here because I’m basic and I wanted Tony to get his diagnosis from his Science Bro. Because I like pain.

 

I found the clock drawings that you’ll see from the second half onward from this website: <https://www.dominicavibes.dm/featured-226015/>

The questions that the SHIELD agents rate Tony on are pulled from the Activities of Daily Living questionnaire as well as a direct Alzheimer’s questionnaire that is used to recognize what stage of Alzheimer’s a patient is in.

I hope you know I gave Tony a sad ending because this is real life and not even a superhero can stop his mortality from catching up with him. It wasn’t angst just for angst’s sake.

 

This fic’s name is Nimentia as a subtle nod to dementia, which is a hallmark symptom of Alzheimer’s disease. The very last scene in this fic had an obscure word also associated with it – avenoir, which I used because it reminds me a bit of “au revoir” and because the definition felt so fitting at the end of Tony’s journey.

The poem at the beginning is by me!

 

I’m a Neuroscience major and I work in a Memory and Cognition lab at a medical school researching Alzheimer’s so I know a good deal about the condition and its progression. I’ve also done extra research to better accurately portray this condition. However, I am only a student, and if you note something that is incorrect, please feel free to let me know! I’m more than glad to change <3

 

Let me know any questions you had on the writing process for this fic, what you thought, and whatever else suits your fancy <3 I love reading your thoughts.

And subscribe because I might feel compelled to add a chapter to answer any questions in one, easy-to-find place! Love you all.


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